


Yours Alone on the Telephone

by fibonaccist



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, Multi, Phone Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fibonaccist/pseuds/fibonaccist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when your boss doesn't answer the phone? Call HIS boss!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours Alone on the Telephone

_Ring, ring, click._

"ShinRa."

"Heeeyyy! What's shakin', Bossman?"

"I recall ordering you only to contact this line if Tseng proves unreachable."

"Not answering his shit, boss. Take the gag out, maybe?"

"Very funny."

"Course it is. I said it. Want my report or not? HEY--..."  _followed by static and muffled thumps_. "...--THINK YER DOIN', RU--... --THERFU--..."  _Another thud, a sound that could be a feedback hum or a whine, and the line is clear again._

"Enough juggling, Reno."  _A sigh, rustling of papers, and a pen poised over a form_. "Your report, please."

"Hhhuh? Yeah, we... we got the whoooOOOLE - uhh, gang... in the d-desert base for ya..."  _More muffled noise_. "...--THE FUCK, MAN--"  _Thud. Static. A little too throaty to be feedback noise this time._

"Everyone you took fit their descriptions, correct?"  _The pen walks carefully over the form, stopping here and there at the behest of a clenching fist_. "Give me what you saw from the dossiers to make sure."

"Found, uhh - Javis, got... hh-- aah... Verdum, Rocher - shit, hold on."  _A fuzzy clattering sound, a tearing noise - is that signal interference or growling? The pen is dropped and the line is clear again. Reno sounds a little out of breath_. "Rocher, Gwen, Charr--RRRFUCK..."

"What in Shiva's name is going on?"  _The fist unclenches, spreads over the desk like a blood stain, oozes down from the edge the same way_.

"Heh. F-funny you should ask, boss. Need a little - aaah, help rememberin' th-the roster..."  _The voice hitches a little too rhythmically to be in a fighting tone_.

"...Reno, if you mispronounce one name, you will repeat it until you can say it correctly."  _The stain spreads above the knee, makes its way to the root and diseases the shame. To put it poetically. A lip curls up in a half-sneer_. "We cannot afford to lose that region with your stuttering tongue."

"Tongue works j-just fine,"  _breathes the voice on the line. Shameless_. "Char, we got Ford, Cirra... uhhnnn... got... Raim... f-fuck..."

"Louder."  _The hand is no longer a stain- it hits the fastenings like a starved beast and burrows in like a parasite. Reno's attitude drains the work ethic of everything and everyone he touches, even without touching. The chair tips back, eyes fall dormant and shut, and the need is humored - the grip on his cock is half-satisfying in itself_.

"B-boss?"

"I said louder."

"The... f-f-the names?"  _A loud report in the background, and another, is almost enough to send him jumping from his chair_. "Sh-shit! R-- too hot, too hhhhh-hot...!"

"Everything."  _The stroke is almost cloying, and sometimes it's almost strangling. This could happen hands free at this rate, but tradition should be observed_. "If you've got the insolence to misbehave when you report to me, you had best do it properly."

"But I - Boss-- shit - wasn't my... TOO HO-aaaahFUCK..."  _No, that isn't feedback, and that isn't interference_. "MotherFUCK, Rude, I..."  _The chuckle that isn't Reno's is almost impossible to hear_.

"You left off at Raim."  _Not pulling harder, not bucking up from the executive chair, not thinking the wildest damned things even Ifrit would blush to see_.

"Y-yeah, Raim... Hiram, Bink... and Rayne."  _And true to his orders, Reno howls out against the speaker, the signal crackling under the volume_.

"Full roster. Good. And tell me what you did."  _Perhaps he is, then, but there's no shake or hitch to his voice_. "How did you dispose of our ruffians?"

"I... fuck... Rude, c'mon!"  _No quarter_. "Stunned'em... silencer on the back of the head on the FUCK the leader, Rude... Rude... fuck, Rude snapped the necks on th'rest of'em... t-took... motherfuckitwasso... harder..."

"Took what, Reno?"  _Now he makes it known by the breathless purr in his voice_.

"Took, oh fuck Rude it's HOT, we took'em to th'cave further b-back... shit SHIT and rigged'em up... f-fuck y-mmMMPHMMmmm..."  _And it sounds like a kiss, and Reno sounds as wanton as neither his partner nor his boss can ever afford to sound. He's got zeal to carry the whole gang through a million funerals._

"Rigged them? For what?"  _Thumb over slit, pressure on the base... it will almost be too soon. To imagine these things, to know his top dogs imagine them, to have watched them play it out before is enough. Nobody hears him milk himself - self control keeps his hints to a sharp intake of breath and then no sound at all._

"RIGGED'EM FOR A MOTHERFUCKING BOMB SO WE C-COULD FUCK... FUCK... FUCK ON THE RUINS SHIT R-R-R-RRRUDE C'MON YOU FUCKSTICK C'MON LEMME SEE IT TOO MOTHERFUCK..."  _And a string of expletives continues - some of them quiet, some of them loud, some of them cut by static. They all follow the rhythm Rufus has come to know far too intimately. He rides it out, drifting back down from his silent high, catching his breath and licking his hand. He likes how he can taste a phantom trace of acid in himself, as if he were a corroding battery._

"And the blueprints?" _he intones, once sure his employees have caught their breath and stabilized_.

"Blue...? Oh yyyyeeeeah, uhh... dropped'em off the chopper by mistake, Boss. Sorry."

"...What?"

_Laughter_. "Just kiddin'. Blueprints are some kinda ashes in the base. We burned'em first thing."

"Don't force me to kill you right here in my office."

"Lighten up, yeah? We're fine. Wh-"  _Shuffling and muffled voices, and the line is clear again_. "Hey, Boss? We're takin' you with us next time. Rude's order."  _Click_.

_The president takes his phone from his ear, narrows his eyes and licks his lips. Insolent, insubordinate little pricks. He can't stand unnecessary work. He can't help, however, the remote twinge of hope that next time is soon._


End file.
